


In Over My Head

by AnotherAnon0



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: BDSM, Bad Poetry, Breathplay, Claustrophobia, Fear Play, Gas Masks, Implied Sexual Content, Leather Kink, M/M, POV First Person, Painplay, Short One Shot, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:53:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27693038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0
Summary: A quick, suggestive HUNK/Nicholai one-shot to combat my writers block!There is no way to describe this so please just heed the tags and enjoy!
Relationships: Nicholai Ginovaef | Nikolai Zinoviev/HUNK
Kudos: 8





	In Over My Head

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Winner Take All](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24711829) by [AnotherAnon0](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnotherAnon0/pseuds/AnotherAnon0). 



I'm a bit claustrophobic. 

It all dates back to when I was a teen conscript, and my platoon decided to _initiate_ me into the ranks by shutting me in a rifle locker -- one that wasn't due to be cleaned until the end of that week. I was stuck in there for a few days -- shivering, dehydrated, anxious and crying like a child. Tight, dark spaces never quite felt the same. It's a flaw I'm ashamed of, but have never been able to overcome.

He knows that.

He knows about _all_ of it. 

I gave it to him like a gift, wrapped up in a pretty little bow. I wanted him to have it. 

And he uses it. Plays with it. Moulds it between his fingers like putty.

I'd never be so vulnerable with anyone else. But with him -- I want to be nothing else. 

He thrives in the darkness. He loves restriction and the weight of heavy leathers on his body. He moves effortlessly through it all, like he was built into the fabric of nothingness itself.

I, on the other hand, recoil. I shrivel and whine like a pathetic little boy as he adorns me in what he wants. I quake as it becomes more and more difficult to move, trembling when he laces the laces and zips the zippers of my vinyl casket, the heavy material tightening around me -- pushing into me -- as he does. I whimper and thrash importantly when he binds me. And I yelp and cry when he slips the gas mask over my head -- the lenses blackened out so I am fully immersed in the void he created.

I can't hear, and it's not long before I can't breathe. I always start by wondering if I'm in over my head, berating myself for going back to him, promising I'll never do it again.

 _This doesn't feel good_ , my anxious mind screams. I try to break free, and fail. 

He always waits for me to submit on my own. I can sense he's around me but he never moves until I've calmed down, either because I accept it or because I've tired myself out.

When my body goes limp and my sobs slow, I feel him. 

The touch of the tips of his fingers is blunted by the vinyl separating us. He drags them across my chest slowly. He prods and squeezes at me like I'm a carcass ready to be butchered and he's searching for the tender cut. 

When his hand slides lower, he finds it. He grips at my groin cruelly and I gasp a scream into the darkness enveloping my head. I can hear his muffled voice through my prison, though I can't make out anything more than his tone -- soothing, chiding, like he were speaking to a dumb animal. 

His touch leaves me and I know worse is coming.

The first strike is white-hot. I can barely muster a sound as the thin straps lash across my hips, sobs wrack through my chest by the second and third. My legs want to buckle but my knees are bound too tightly to let me fall. 

I try begging, pleading, desperately drooling in my mask. I can feel sweat beading and dripping down my temples as he continues without remorse. 

The anxious part of my mind continues to bellow in fear, chastising me for my stupidity.

_This hurts! This doesn't feel good! I'm going to suffocate!_

Sometimes I lose track of if the cries are just in my mind or if I'm speaking them. A hoarseness in my throat cracks my pleas to shards of glass.

Through the pain and fear, the dryness shredding my throat, the heat blossoming over every inch of flesh, I return to the rifle locker. I can almost see the slits of light, too high for me to peep through -- always too high. I can almost hear my voice bounding off the aluminium. I can almost smell the gunpowder. 

And then the abuse is replaced by a firm grasp of my exposed manhood and gentle, soothing strokes of the tormented flesh. The leather of his glove is warm, comforting.

The torture turns to pleasure, but I'm still in that dark place. I'm still pathetic, but now I'm enjoying it. 

His hand releases me when I've reached an edge I'm forbidden from falling over, and prodding at my legs and the tickle of circulation tells me he's loosening the bondage there.

When my thighs can part, he releases more buckles and straps and lets me fall to my hands and knees. Immediately, I want to rip the mask from my face, but experience tells me he'll just tie me up again and delay my release further as punishment. 

Only he is allowed to remove it. Only he can create and banish the horrible hell I am in. 

I can feel his eyes on my back, watching me closely to make sure I am compliant, and when he is satisfied, I feel his fingers slip down my jaw and hook beneath the collar. 

When he pulls it off, the first flood of clean air into my lungs almost burns me. My mouth is already so dry from the drooling and sobbing, and my skin pricks and goosebumps at the coolness of the room.

I breathe, and I feel fine. 

The anxious screaming in my mind stops, and -- as though a switch were flipped -- all of the residual pain in my body instantaneously becomes pleasure. 

I begin to throb for him, enamoured by the blackness of his boots when they step to stand before me. It's as though all of the darkness I had just been confined to was in those boots. I want to touch them, to kiss them, to lick and worship them but, again, I know my place. 

As my gasps become breaths and my breaths become little mews of need, I look up to him. 

I can just barely see the glint of his eyes behind the reddened lenses of his own mask -- one that empowers him where it destroyed me. 

And I know the night is just beginning.

**Author's Note:**

> What.... was this.
> 
> Why was this necessary.
> 
> No.


End file.
